


To Be Unignorable

by the_most_beautiful_broom



Series: Tumblr Prompts [6]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, FBI Agent Bellamy, Heist, Thief Clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-08 20:28:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14701617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_most_beautiful_broom/pseuds/the_most_beautiful_broom
Summary: For the prompt "write a kiss...as a suggestion"





	To Be Unignorable

“If I knew it was going to take this long, I’d have picked the lock myself.”

Clarke let out a frustrated huff of air, her hands stilling on the safe as she turned to cast a glare at the man behind her. Agent Blake was pacing, his arms crossed tightly across his chest and his expression unapologetic.

She’d been approached by the FBI a week ago; they’d asked her to lend a civilian assist in the Wallace case. They needed to get into a Fundraiser Gala, held at the Wallace estate, and as the daughter of the other Massachusetts senator, Clarke was as solid a cover as The Bureau could hope for. She also happened to have the lightest fingers east of the Mississippi, and had worked for Uncle Sam on two dozen cases like this, when their own men couldn’t feel break the safes she could, a fact which Agent Blake seemed to keep forgetting.

“It’s not some bicycle lock,” Clarke muttered, turning back to the safe, her fingers settling over the safe again, her gloved fingers careful on the dial, “although if that’s the FBI’s mentality, it explains why you have to keep calling me to do this for you.”

She hated this dress.

It was pretty enough, sure, but it was made to be seen, admired, and not for squatting on the floor of Senator Dante’s office, with a Federal Agent breathing down her neck.

Although, to be fair, as far as federal agents went, Blake wasn’t bad.

She’d worked with plenty of mouth breathers, who assumed she was only a civilian asset because of her mother’s title, or her appearance, and Agent Blake had been decently respect since he’d met her three hours ago. And, objectively, he had the prettiest eyes she’d seen in a while, and his smattering of freckles and deep voice made her dress feel a little tighter…objectively.

“If I listened to rumors, I’d say you weren’t unfamiliar with iron bars,” Agent Blake muttered, and Clarke’s jaw clenched, happy thoughts disintegrating. Everybody knew her delinquent past, but few people had the audacity to throw it in her face. 

She spun the dial again, trying to ignore the barb and needing to refocus.

“This would go a lot faster if you weren’t stomping around,” she said tightly, closing her eyes and trying to feel the catch of the combination.

She heard him mutter something and she pursed her lips, losing her place and spinning the dial again. “I’m not kidding, Blake, I need silence if I’m going to—”

“I know,” he said, his voice tense, “that’s why I don’t stomp.”

Clarke froze.

If he wasn’t stomping, then who…

She looked over at the door, her pulse skipping as she saw the shadow of two feet outside the office door.

“I thought your guys said we had fifteen minutes between guards’ rounds,” she whispered.

“We do,” Agent Blake said, his voice low and his eyes scanning the room as he looked for places to hide, “but they’re early.”

The handle on the door jiggled as the lock caught and Clarke swallowed nervously. “If they catch us in here, that’s a mark against you and a subpoena for me.”

“You think I don’t know that?” he said, his eyes still searching the room.

A radio crackled just outside the door, and someone knocked sharply, three times. “Senator Wallace?”

“How do they know someone’s in here?” Clarke whispered.

”Can you get out the window?”

They spoke at the same time and Clarke’s jaw actually dropped. “Are you serious?”

The agent’s eyes flashed. “Yeah; one of us has to do our jobs tonight.”

“I was doing my job just fine,” she hissed, pulling off her gloves and stuffing them into the minuscule handbag she’d been carrying around. “Until someone kept interrupting—”

“Yeah, well, I’m interrupting again: can you make it out the window?”

Clarke lifted her chin. “Of course I can, but there’s a patio below, and someone would definitely see us  _To Catch A Thief_ -ing our way out of her.”

The agent glowered at her as he strode quickly over to the window to look down it. “Is that that Cary Grant movie? Seriously?”

It was, and it was one of her favorites.

Clarke lifted her chin. “Regardless, looks like neither of us is doing our job right if you can’t get us out of this.”

“We have to do the window,” he said, shrugging out of his suit jacket.

It was a very nice jacket, well-made and well-tailored, but Clarke had to say, she’d always loved a man in rolled up shirtsleeves.

Again, objectively.

“I can hear you in there; open up!”

Clarke’s head snapped back to the door, with the three knocks, then she turned back to the agent, who swore under his breath.

The agent looked back at her, raising an eyebrow. “The window,” he said evenly.

“We can’t do the window; he’s heard us in here. They’ll be looking for us.”

“I can get us out of here.”

Clarke shook her head. “Not like that, you can’t.”

“Well, do you have a better suggestion?”

Another three sharp raps on the door.

His question hung on the air between them and Clarke bit her lip. She hated cliches, but this really was the only way…

She kicked off her shoes, and lifted a hand to her hair, pulling out a couple bobby pins. “What’s your first name?”

The agent blinked.

“Your name,” she said evenly, moving over to the door, “And for goodness’ sake, get away from the window. The desk, in front of it, that’s fine.”

Understanding dawned and he shook his head. “Clarke, that’s not a good—”

“He’s knocked three times, each time,” she said, knowing she was right, “It beats falling out a window and getting tased by security guards as they chase us, okay? It might not be the The Bureau’s way, but it’s going to get us out of this, I promise.”

He still didn’t look convinced, and his jaw was working nervously, and if Clarke wasn’t just thinking we have to get out of this, she probably would’ve found that endearing. But as it was, she shook her head, so some of her hair fell, and waited for the agent to come around the desk. He dropped his jacket by her shoes and she smirked at that.

“Nice touch,” she muttered, and he almost smiled.

“It’s Bellamy,” he said offhandedly, and it took Clarke a minute to make sense out of that, before it registered.

Of course it was.

But she had to focus, holding her breath, waiting by the door, trusting the way she read people. And it paid off.

The guard tried the door one more time, finding the handle stuck, and Clarke flipped the lock, timing it with his second knock, so the click was disguised by his banging on the door. She knew he’d try the handle again, out of habit and she just had to make sure that what he saw left no room for doubt.

That’s what she told herself, that the butterflies in her stomach were from nerves, that this agent was only for her cover, and that she was in no way affected.

When she got close to him, he looked straight up nervous, and Clarke’s head tilted slightly, almost fondly.

“I’ll be gentle,” she whispered, a bit if a challenge, and when the third knock sounded, she kissed him.

And it was nice, kissing him. Her hands on his jawline, framing his face and pulling him into her, then slipping back into his hair. His lips firm and full under hers, responding to her, beckoning her. He tasted like coffee, and something deeper, richer, and she couldn’t help but lean into him, press her body up against him.

His hands were on her hips, then, and Clarke realized she wasn’t kissing him anymore, and that he was kissing her. His tongue darted out between his lips, and she opened for him without hesitation, breathless and excited and craving more of him. And maybe the door was opening and maybe someone coughed but when he pulled back, the only thing running through her mind was the thing she’d asked him, the thing she’d known to say, and she breathed his name.

“Bellamy.”

She opened her eyes in time to see his pulse jump in his throat as she said his name, and his fingers on her hips tightened. But there was a harsh light on his face, which meant the door was opened, the guard confused as to how the lock suddenly gave when the room’s only inhabitants were across the room, wrapped up in each other.

Right.

Clarke brushed her hair out of her face like she was flustered, bashful, overwhelmed, turned to the guard and started babbling. He recognized the Griffin princess as she stooped to pick up her heels, lilting apologies and pulling her besotted boyfriend out of the Senators office. He shook his head and let them go, and Clarke kept up the steady stream of words until she’d led Bellamy down the hall and out into the gala. She grabbed two champagne flutes as a waiter walked by with a tray, handing one to the agent, and finding him studying her.

“That worked,” he said at length, not necessarily sounding surprised, as much as like he was still processing.

Clarke lifted a shoulder. “Of course it did. Sometimes the best way to be invisible is to be unignorable.”

She wasn’t sure if he knew he was doing it or not, but he’d pulled his lower lip into his mouth, worrying it between his teeth as he continued to stare at her. Like he was surprised, or intrigued, or both.

When he didn’t say anything, Clarke clinked her glass against his, before taking a small sip, watching with growing amusement when he copied her gesture subconsciously.

“So,” she said brightly, when some of the golden liquid had left the glass, before he swallowed, “Round two once the guards have finished their rounds?”

He choked.

Clarke knew her delight was evident and he glared at her when another waiter appeared with some napkins for him.

“Getting the documents, I mean,” Clarke corrected innocently, once the waiter had slipped back into the crowd and Bellamy’s breathing had returned to normal.

“I think,” he said, good-natured humor shining through his voice, “that you and I have different definitions of gentle.”

Clarke grinned, lifting her glass as a salute. She’d drink to that.


End file.
